


The Kidnapping

by MelonEthylene



Series: The Kingdom of Yats [1]
Category: Hatfilms, The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence Mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelonEthylene/pseuds/MelonEthylene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medieval/Robin Hood AU<br/>The Kingdom of Yats is in dire straights and King Ross Max doesn't seem to be doing anything to help. One man decides to take matters into his own hands. Things quickly get out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kidnapping

Most people blamed King Ross Max for the endless problems that plagued the Kingdom of Yats. They weren't wrong. It was not coincidence that Queen Lomadia Rutherford's abrupt passing and Ross' hurried inauguration sent the land into free fall. At first, people hoped the chaos was the natural stumble of a kingdom that had lost its monarch to an unexpected and brutal illness. But as the years dragged on, conditions only worsened. The wealth pooled in the hands of royalty, leaving commoners stranded. And, as corruption became as pervasive as rats on the streets, it became clear that things were not going to get better.

The people knew this reality. They lived it. And their thoughts could be distilled into a series of simple formulas. I am poor. I am starving. I am helpless. They are rich and they hold the food and the swords. Of course, though everyone thought this, no one dared say a word. They continued to touch their foreheads to the cobblestones as royalty passed, not daring to follow the smell of gold and food with their eyes. The images of blood on blade, both sword and execution axe, were always forefront on their minds. The only hope they held at first was for the return of Xephos Brindley. Though he and Lomadia had never married, never officially giving him the right to the throne, his relationship with Queen Lomadia had been long and heavily admired by the public. To the people he, not some obscure relation scrounged up a few days after Her Majesty's death, was the true inheritor of the crown. But Xephos had disappeared soon after the Queen's death, and those who had seen him in those few days before he vanished said he looked less alive than the body he had just buried.

It was in this state that the Kingdom of Yats rested. Starving, violent and corrupted. Full of fearful eyes and stifled anger. There were a few, however, who refused to give in. The Queen had been dead for four years, but in that time her ideals had only gotten stronger in the minds of a select few others. As hope in Xephos vanished-many now presumed him dead- it got reinvested, as hope inevitably does, into whispers. Whispers of the few who had the same will and fiery courage as the deceased Queen. Whispers of a hooded figure in the forests giving impossible presents and salvation to those in need with one hand, and wreaking surprising amounts of havoc to the royals with the other.

Then there was talk of Rutherford's former captain of the guard. Demoted and humiliated, it didn't take a genius to see how angry she was and how much she disliked the new monarch. Not much was known about her second-in-command, though he was still held in high esteem. He had disappeared a few days after Brindley had vanished, and common thought was that he'd gone to look for Xephos, a futile quest to bring his best friend back home. Then there were subtler character and clues. Glances shared between guards, kindness among strangers, mercenaries flocking to the capitol like vultures. Nothing was ready to happen yet, but there was resistance to the corruption and injustice. And it was growing.

* * *

Yats' neighbor was called Blackrock Kingdom and was ruled over by one Rythian Hellstrand, who was not nearly as sinister as his last name and his appearance would have everyone believe. In fact, it was fairly common knowledge that Hellstrand, in many ways, was somewhat of a puppet leader when it came to Zoeya’s, his best friend, whims. Though Rythian made most of the important and pedantic decisions, whenever Zoeya stepped in to demand some change or law be put in place, King Hellstrand was quite helpless to stop her. That was why many referred to it as the Blackrock Queendom, as the prefix changed with whoever was in power. They were both good people though and their kingdom was happy and contented, very much at odds with their wrecked neighbor Yats. Though Rythian wished to stay more within his borders and not meddle in other's affairs, he was almost never successful. He was too easily persuaded into lending a hand and had helped out both Yats and various other kingdoms and queendoms dotted nearby on numerous occasions.

Thus, in late August, it was decided King Ross should pay a visit in hopes of some assistance with the crop failure his kingdom was experiencing. It was dangerous for Ross to travel outside of the Towers, the capital of Yats. Because of his unpopularity there had been numerous problems before with assassination and kidnapping attempts, and they were getting worse with each trip. This time, they decided to keep the visit as secret as possible in hopes of preventing such events. In the interest of speed and stealth, Ross would be traveling in disguise along with a single inconspicuous mercenary. This particular mercenary had enough ties to the court to assure his loyalty but not enough to be recognized, thus was perfect for this job.

Though all this effort had been put into keeping the trip a secret, not everyone in the castle was good at keeping their mouths shut. And so it was, late the night before Ross would be leaving, a popular barkeep in the capital, Mark Turpster, said conversationally,

"So Ross is leaving tomorrow? What the fuck's with that?"

"Shut up Turps, Jeeesus! Do you want literally everyone in the whole kingdom to hear? Holy shit," said the man he was talking to, attempting to whisper but being about as effective as Turpster at keeping his voice down. He was draped carelessly over both his chair and the bar's counter top, decked out in the full armor that marked him as a guard. He was a fairly short man, strong and sturdy looking. His black hair was cut close to his head, practically shaved on the sides. His accent was foreign but the ease with which he carried himself showed clearly that he felt no awkwardness at that fact. Some people turned around to look at him, curious, while others sighed and hunched over their drinks.

"Oh fuck, sorry." Turps gave a little laugh that said he wasn't really sorry at all. The other man groaned, running his hand through his hair and narrowing his eyes at the barkeep before saying exasperatedly.

"You're the worst Turps. The absolute worst. Why the fuck do I put up with you?" Turpster smirked at him.

"Obviously because I'm the best...arouund!" He sang the last word, voice going higher and cracking a bit.

"And nothing's ever gonna bring us down." The other finished in a sort of high pitched mumbled singing voice. It was a favorite lute song of the court bard, Sam, and Turps was well known for his raring, if off key, renditions of classic songs.

"But Sips, Sips," Turps glanced around and lowered his voice so only about half the tavern could listen easily. Not that talking more quietly mattered anymore. They had already drawn massive amounts of attention and the mention of the name Sips drew even more, regardless of the volume with which the name was spoken.

Newcomers to the bar perked up and looked around as they had mostly never seen the Captain of the Guard up close before. Sips tended to keep himself to the castle, not taking part in the patrols that commonly took place. In fact, there were many rumors about what he looked like, ranging from the absurd to the impossible. Most people tended to be disappointed when they saw him. Though he attended executions occassionally, most people didn't go to those freely. The bar, however, was a different matter and the regulars there were sick of him.

"What's he doing?" Turps continued, "Fucking off to old Endy's queendom?"

"I don't know Turps. I don't fucking know. He's taking some joker named Trottimus with him. He's like, a mercenary or something? Ross can be such a moron holy shit,"

As he and Turps got sidetracked talking about the king in the way that only the Sips Lovasz and his best friend (many rumors claimed they were more than just friends and neither seemed inclined to confirm nor deny these) could, a hooded figure made its way to the door and slipped outside. He hadn't expected to get such good information when he had gone to the Little Mermaid bar for a good, stiff drink, but this was gold. He would have to act quickly to not miss this opportunity. Smiling, he ran into the night.

* * *

 

There were two ways King Ross could leave the Towers to get to King Rythian's land. There was a large, well-trod road that was commonly used by merchants and pretty much everyone else. Then there was a smaller and more direct one, more of a deer trail than a road. It was used very rarely and mostly by hunters or mercenaries who were traveling small. Royalty, being predictable, were guaranteed to use it when they wanted to be "stealthy". It was the wrong choice, of course, nothing was more suspicious than two hooded figures on horseback speeding down a never used trail. They never seemed to learn that when they wanted to blend in, more people meant more cover and more difficulty for kidnappers and assassins. But lo, early the next morning, two hooded figures on horseback streaked down the smaller path, one riding steady and confident, the other wobbling somewhat, arm occasionally windmilling to keep balance.

They were about half an hour into the journey when the leading horse, that of the more wobbly one, slowed down and stopped. The other slowed similarly and the rider pulled back his hood revealing a boyish face with chestnut hair sweeping to the right. Despite his young look, a scar across his nose and cheek spoke of his experience, and his eyes roamed carefully. He sat upright in the saddle, totally alert, one hand on the pommel of his sword. He exchanged a few quiet words with the other, who gestured somewhat wildly and whose voice pitched up and down in volume. This man kept his cloak on and, as he spoke, mentioned the name Trott a few times while addressing the short, alert mercenary. Trott's words never rose above a quiet murmur.

They seemed to be talking about a lump of clothes on the trail. It looked to maybe be a person. Dead? Unconscious? Cautiously, Trott dismounted his horse and slowly made his way to the pile. He drew his sword as he advanced, eyes still roaming. For all his alertness however, he could not avoid the arrow that shot out of the forest. Though he managed to pick up the snap of the bow string as it released the bolt, he was not quite prepared. His head snapped towards the noise the moment he heard, but his hand didn't move, something the archer had been counting on. As soon as the arrow smacked into his hand, shocking the sword out of it, Trott knew it was not a normal arrow. There was pain, sure, but he could feel it was pain that bruised and would swell but didn't bleed or pierce. Ignoring the throbbing, he drew a knife with his left, glancing down at the bolt lying on the ground. Sure enough, it had no point. Instead, a stone was tied to the front, seemingly giving it the same balance as a standard arrow but without the pierce. Trott tested his right hand as he took a few cautious steps in the direction he'd heard the archer fire from. It was already swelling but nothing was broken and though for now he still wouldn't be able to grip a sword, he estimated within an hour he would be able to again with only some pain. He glanced at the cloth, only to confirm what he'd already guessed. What had looked to be a lump of clothes was, in fact, a lump of clothes. He muttered a curse at having fallen for such a rudimentary trick.

He was distracted from his thoughts and his scanning of the forest by a cry from behind him. Trott whirled around to look, cursing again. An arrow, a proper one this time, with a piercing head, lay quivering in a tree trunk next to where the other man had been still mounted on his horse. A scrap of cloth dangled from the arrows point. Ross, for of course it was he, scrambled up from the ground where he'd been knocked, hood torn from his head. His short, black hair was sticking up from his head, even more chaotic than usually, and his blue eyes darted around in panic. There was faint, mocking laughter from somewhere among the trees. Trott growled in annoyance while Ross whimpered. Trott listened carefully for the snap of string he'd heard earlier, confident this time he could react quick enough. Had he known more about bows, he would've known that a snap that loud was not a standard bow noise, especially if wielded by an expert. He would've known that that noise was in all likelihood fake or exaggerated, and so would be disappointed if he expected to hear it again. But Trott, like many mercenaries, was not a bowman but a swordsman. Crossbows perhaps, and he could hit decently with a standard recurve bow, but he was no expert.

The only warning Trott heard was the faint whistle of an arrow whipping through air, which was no warning at all. He crumpled, pain exploding in his temple, blacking out before he could even piece together what happened. Ross didn't need to piece anything together. He'd seen his expert mercenary guard get creamed without even putting up a fight and wanted none of it. He began sprinting full pelt down the road, cloak flapping behind him. Not only did he choose to stay on trail without any sort of cover, but he ran away from the Towers and any civilization that might help him. He was panicking and his thinking was not the clearest. Then again, the archer thought as he stepped onto the road and released a lazy shot at the running figure, intelligence could be a tricky business with royals. He cursed when he missed, and Ross put on a burst of speed upon seeing the shot go by. The archer cursed again and began jogging after, not wanting his target to get too far away.

In the end though, he didn't even need to do anything. Ross just tripped, face planting into mud, dead leaves tangling into his short black hair. He scrambled onto all fours, turning hurriedly to face his attacker. A large hooded figure jogged their way over, chest heaving slightly, panted breaths barely audible over the crunching of leaves underfoot.

"I fucking...hate the running...can we not...next time? Fuck," He panted. He leaned on his bow, winded. Then he laughed. "That was quite a graceful trip though mate. I'll give you that,"

"Hey!" said the king, still on the ground and splattered in mud, voice high pitched and indignant, "Hey fuck you buddy! Don't...Don't laugh at me! Fuck you! I don't...I'm a king, mate! Go suck a dick!" His voice pitched higher and higher as he spoke, not scared or angry anymore, just indignant. The other man looked at him for a moment then laughed and said cheerily.

"Fuck off mate." And, with that, ended the conversation with one quick, calculated punch to the king's temple.

* * *

Trott woke up tied in ropes, freezing, and in pain. Not the best way he'd ever woken up, but not the worst, he'd had his share of wild nights. Spots swam in his eyes when he opened them and both his hand and temple throbbed. He groaned and attempted to focus his eyesight on the hazy figure he could see moving around. As his vision cleared, the figure resolved itself into a large man with a scruffy, ginger beard. The man moved around a campfire with lazy confidence, occasionally poking at it with a stick. His green shirt was covered in dirt and mud in places, and dead leaves were tangled into his reddish-brown hair. Trott noticed two knives strapped on with a belt, and on a nearby tree was a bow and quiver propped up next to a bag of what was probably supplies. This was undoubtedly the archer who had attacked them. He was...surprisingly attractive, though Trott did his best to discard the thought as soon as he had it. Instead, he focused on how annoyed he was. It wasn't hard having been knocked out, injured and tied up by some random asshole with a bow.

As the fog around his brain cleared (helped along by anger), he became aware of just why he was so cold. From his head to his shoulders and down his chest, he was dripping wet. His hair was plastered down to his forehead and the top of his cloak and light brown shirt hung heavy with water. He looked down at himself for a moment before looking up to glare at his kidnapper, who was still occupied poking at the fire.

"Why the fuck am I wet?" Trott demanded in a loud, angry voice, becoming more annoyed about the situation by the moment. Then he winced as pain flashed through his head at the abrupt noise and movement. The bearded man turned, seeming unsurprised that Trott was awake (and furious) and laughed.

"I don't know mate, have a good dream?" He winked and Trott flushed.

"Yeah, about your mom." He snapped back, headache fading from adrenaline and embarrassment. A different voice chimed in with a loud chorus of "OOOOOH" and Trott spotted Ross a yard or so away, equally tied up but sitting comfortably by a fire.

"Oh snap!" the bearded man said with gritted teeth waving around the stick he'd been using to tend to the fire before pointing it at Trott and exclaiming loudly, teeth still gritted "We've got a feisty one here, folks!" His voice dropped back to being normal as he said casually, "Dumped water on your head, mate."

"Fuck you! Why?" Trott responded, high pitched and furious.

"Curiosity, mate. Like the cat." The other man shrugged. 

"Cat? What cat?! Okay, you know what." Trott took a deep breath to calm himself then continued, "Look, whatever your name is, just what...what do you want?"  

"Not really sure, mate." The archer said cheerily. "And it's Alex Smiffy...Maybe you've heard of me?" He said the last part with a mixture of hope and cockiness. Trott didn't hear it however, instead stuck on the "Not really sure" part.

"You don't- You don't know?!" Trott was right back to being annoyed. This time though, a large part of him was very taken aback by this strange man and some incredulous laughter escaped into his voice. "You just fucking kidnapped two people! One of them's a king for fuck's sake, and you don't fucking know?!" Smiffy shrugged again, totally unconcerned.

"Yeah mate. I just said that. Didn't really think it through, did I?" Then he motioned with the stick at a rock near the fire. What looked like some kind of cooked meat sat on it. "Anyway, you want some lunch? I got rabbit," Trott was having none of it,

"Smitty, or whatever the hell, you can take that rabbit and shove it up your ass, okay?"

"Woah, rude." That voice was not Smiffy's, and was garbled through a mouthful of food. Trott's head whipped around to glare at King Ross. He was not happy with what he saw. When he'd seen Ross tied up earlier, he'd failed to notice the ropes were too loose to do anything at all. Ross was sitting cross-legged, wooden plate of food on his lap and his hands freely shoving rabbit into his mouth under the loose ropes.

"What the fuck!" Trott yelled, again, indignant laughter tinting his words, "He's not even fucking tied up!"

"Nah mate he's good." Smiffy responded, not even looking around.

"Yeah mate, you don't have to be a prick Trott c'mon" Ross chimed in.

"Yeah Trott. I've met you for like five fucking minutes and you're acting like a prick, mate" Though fully invested in the conversation, if it could be called that, Trott made a mental note that Smiffy must've known his name judging by the lack of reaction to it.

"Wha- Okay. Okay, you know what? I don't give a fuck. Just let me go. I don't have to be here. I don't want to be here. Clearly, you don't like me and I'm not going to get paid anymore anyway. Just get me the fuck out of here and you'll never hear from me, all right?"

"I'm not a fucking idiot, mate." Smiffy laughed. "I know your types. You'll just fucking blackmail me if I let you go. Try and deny it you prick! Just try it!" His tone became more aggressive and his teeth gritted again as he talked.

"Geez no need to be so aggressive" Trott replied, somewhat taken aback by the abrupt change in tone. "And no, I fucking won't, okay?"

"Ooh a prick and a liar, what else are you, a twat?"

"Looks like a bit of a twat mate." Ross chimed in.  

"You fucking hired me!" Trott protested, "You're a really shit king, you know that?"  The monarch became a little more subdued at that, and put down the piece of meat he'd been about to shove into his face.

"Yeah I'm a little shit. A bit shite." His accent stilted into some strange northern caricature and Trott groaned. Not this accent again. "Not very good king. Yeah. Shite king. That's me!"  

"And fucking crazy too," Trott muttered. He sighed loudly and shook his head, "How the fuck did I get into this situation." Smiffy rolled his eyes in response.

"Shut up mate. You don't have to deal with you two idiots."

"Idiots?! Who's the one who kidnapped a fucking king?"

"A shit king." Ross mumbled. Than said louder, looking at Smiffy, "He's got a point there mate, things are looking pretty bad for you."

"You two are the ones fucking tied up!" Smiffy said, exasperated, patience seemingly running out.

"Nah mate naaah," Ross said before shoving the last of his food into his mouth.

"Thank you Ross. Fucking Christ," Trott said, still unhappy with Smiffy's incredible breach of kidnapping protocol and glad that someone agreed.

"All right, both of you, shut up for a minute, yeah?" Smiffy said as he held up his hands and closed his eyes trying to think. Several moments passed. A few birds could be heard chirping from somewhere in the forest, celebrating the noonday sun.

Finally, Ross broke the silence, "So, mate, what are you going to d-"

"Shut up Trott!" Smiffy interrupted teeth gritted.

"That was fucking him!" Trott protested nodding his head towards Ross.

"I said shut up, mate!" Smiffy insisted, opening his eyes to look at Trott.

"You're a fucking idiot," The mercenary laughed in exasperation. 

"Shut up Trott," Ross said cheerily, joining in.

"Yeah, stop talking Trott, you absolute prick." Smiffy followed up.

"Wh- Th- Grr." Trott grumbled angrily deciding it was best to cut his losses and just stop talking. He just couldn't win against these two. He blinked. Hold on. Why was Ross so friendly with this kidnapper? And vice versa? He hadn't really thought of how strange it was before. But here they were, the king and his attacker, ganging up on a poor, helpless mercenary. Also surprisingly, Trott didn't feel at all threatened, or even angry anymore, despite having been accosted, tied up, and insulted. He was annoyed, yes, very annoyed, but he realized that at the same time, he was kind of having fun. For all the insults Smiffy threw at Trott, he kind of liked the bearded man. Ross too, now that he wasn't acting anything remotely like a king. Trott didn't even feel that bitter about not getting paid for this job. It was all very strange and, judging by Smiffy's ineptitude, would probably stay that way for a while yet. Trott sighed and resigned himself to trying to get comfortable being tied up, leaning on the tree trunk behind him.

He was too absorbed in his own thoughts, and watching the other two bicker, to notice the small, blue orb that detached itself from seemingly inside Trott's neck. The orb hovered behind the mercenary for a moment, before gently making its way behind the tree he was leaning on and, picking up speed, flying quickly into the sky back in the direction of the Towers.


End file.
